


Lucky Strike

by IllusionaryEnnui



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Daggers, F/M, Fluff, Minor Injuries, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Training, Weapons, Weapons Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllusionaryEnnui/pseuds/IllusionaryEnnui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A change made for a different hand. They set bow and sword aside for a moment to silence the blood rushing in their veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Strike

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chenria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chenria/gifts).



> Prompted by and for [chenria](http://chenria.tumblr.com/), who is such a darling. I felt she needed a pick-me-up with her noble archer and the good commander… no shirt and daggers.

_My blade is no match_  
against the fear and madness  
hidden in a glove

“Watch your guard!”

Clear waters bubbled through the glade, far from the reach of Skyhold’s prying eyes. Plans for the new barracks sat, still rolled beneath their seals, untouched beside a lonely tent. Three daggers caught the twilight, wicked edges wielded with light hearts. The Commander of the Inquisition held only one, its longer balance held with a swordsman’s grasp rather than that of an assassin. His voice carried over the rustle of leaves as late summer’s breath whispered through the vale. The Inquisitor gripped her twin blades even tighter, the leather of a single glove on her left hand creaking.

Another lunge. The archer’s fingers loosened on the bronto-hide hilt as she let her dagger fly. Cullen parried, metal ringing against metal. An opening, one forearm braced under the other. Estelle’s second dagger flashed out, reaching for the bare skin of her Commander’s ribs. His shoulder thrust her away, her lithe frame and boots sliding in the dirt.

“You need not hold back." No scolding slid into the hushed timbre, the warrior’s pleasured smirk tweaked by the touch of his tongue to the scar on his upper lip. The night was theirs alone, a moment to move beyond titles and rank. They trained for the thrill of it, for the passion – the archer and the warrior, honing lesser-explored skills. A private session for them both. Sweat dripped down lean muscle and linen, each movement unmistakable as they flexed with every trick and turn. A lustful eye fought to mask its allure, the curve of her breast a teasing sight. Their breeches caked with dust as they stirred the ground.

He could taste her sweeter scent clinging to him, and she felt the sheen of his earthy musk upon her, setting their blood aflame. Yet they denied desire for the dance of steel and their pride. They were all grins and limber strength, he nothing more than a moving target to guide her strikes, the guard to her blade. How many hours did they trade blows, techniques shared and learned? Above them, the greater moon took her watch, painting their bodies in stark shadows and wisps of light.

One breath, one moment. The warrior stilled. His guard slipped, eyes squeezed shut against the lance of pain piercing through the daze. Another breath and she nicked his cheek, driving him back into a tree.

The dagger in her left hand fell and she reached for him. Gentle fingers feather over the thin cut, barely enough room to bleed.

"I am all right." A strained, but pleased smile pulled across his lips as her thumb idly traced the fullness of them. She wanted to kiss him, to take the pain away but that smirk startled, and confused her. Golden eyes shifted downward, leading her gaze. Beneath her arms, the tip of his own knife hovered over the swell of her bosom, an easy spear between her ribs if he chose. "Distractions are good for daggers. Keep that in mind."

Another lesson learned. Her prize: his mouth hot against hers and his fingers snaking into her hair. Yet, she pushed him away, her palms pressed flat and tickled by the fine, flaxen curls upon his chest.

"But you weren't faking that." Estelle stole a breath, her mouth ghosting over his. The former templar turned pensive, caught between her and the towering oak. His hands relaxed their hold, their ardour quieted.

"No, but there are times that we don't have a choice." A tender hand tugged on the pins within reach until her tresses unravelled in a cascade of pale gold. “You need every moment, every chance to survive so that you will return to me.”

The headaches and spasms came and went, taking him only in the darker hours. They struck when his body slipped beyond its threshold, worn and restless. His path to free himself of his leash yet stretched far ahead, but he no longer craved the poison’s flavour. Only hers. Only her strength, and her heart sustained him. Her support carried him through the nightmares and saw him into the day, into the sun and the Maker’s light. She gave him hope that he had been forgiven for his crimes, that their cause was just. He was the luxury she allowed for herself, what kept her sane amongst the undulating tides when fate uprooted a life of servitude and solitude, unwilling to risk something she could lose. She was the luxury the older, darker part of him could not afford, but for her, he was willing to live beyond his life’s means. _This_ was the life they chose and perhaps, Cullen imagined, they could have more.

Questing fingers reached for the hand hidden from him by leather. The Anchor lied silent so far from the rifts. She shivered and froze as he kissed the gloved lengths.

“Don’t.” Her pleas sounded pained, her fingers stiffed where they curled about his own. What if she faltered and the mark came alive?

"I trust you. You would never hurt me of your own accord." Happenstance may have branded her, but they shared the same course. She was his, the Anchor merely a tool she wielded – it did not change the woman he loved. It did not change the faith he held for her. But there was another lesson calling for an answer as their blood cried for a different vice, and he tipped her chin to meet his half-lidded gaze. His nose brushed across her cheek, his breath hot over her skin. “Now, we have a moment to ourselves. It would be shameful of us to waste what precious time we have.”

Her azure stare needed only to match his and there was no retreat. Giving in to the grasp of instinct and lust, Cullen wound his arm to lay up her spine, the blade kept away from her skin as he pulled her against him. Warm, hungry lips slanted over hers. She dropped her final dagger while his clattered onto the ground behind her, her boot-heel kicking it away. Teeth and tongue danced like the blades they had abandoned, the rough bark digging into skin only a subtle undertone to the chorus building in their veins.

Estelle gasped, her shoulder blades abraded by bark as Cullen spun her around to brace her against the oak. The warrior’s fingers dancing over her skin, gliding up her stomach to seek the lacing of her breasts’ binding. He made quick work of them, her mouth never leaving her until the soft mounds spilled free. Playful nips trailed behind as he reached for them, his tongue and lips lavishing one pert tip. The archer’s fingers stole into his hair, gripping tighter with each flick of the wet muscle, his name muttered like a Chantry sister’s prayer.

Her own hands joined the fray until they both stood bare before the moon and the Maker. Estelle’s fingers circled her lover’s length, flush with blood and stiff in her grasp. It twitched and throbbed at her touch, all blood and need. A restrained hiss, the warrior’s voice set the fire to the woman’s blood, its lusty growl spearing deep. With all his strength, Cullen lifted her whole body from the ground and pinned her there with it alone, her heels left to hook into the meat of his backside. In tandem with his mouth upon hers, one finger slipped into her, thick and clever, reaching for that place inside her that brought forth her mewling cry. Then another. A slow, steady pace, each careful stroke made with purpose as his tongue matched it, dancing with hers as she bucked into the cup of his calloused palm. A deft twist made her near the precipice when he struck the right cord, the coil wound to its breaking point.

And then he withdrew.

She made to protest, to demand reparation but his mouth swallowed it, her legs hitched higher on his waist. Evened, Cullen needed only to pull himself from her hold and slide himself into her blessed heat to appease the dull ache undulating within them. His legs shuddered with that press but he held firm, fingernails imprinting half-moons into her flesh and her own essence smeared onto her skin. She shook and quivered, moaning in marked time as he did. Each rolling snap of his hips brought her voice ringing out, his name again on her lips before he swallowed it as well. The thrusts grew shallower, stronger. He knew just how to play her as easily as he knew how to angle his shield or sweep his sword. Another twist, his hips changed their song, circling, and she felt him reach deeper still. Another breath, his fingers quick and learned to bring her with him into the spiral as the coil snapped taut. Deeper and deeper, down into the sea of raw and primal thoughts and acts. And then it rose up. She lost herself in it with his name torn from her in a throaty croon and her own lost in a lion’s roar against her clavicle, her release a tide which took him not long after.

And yet he did not loosen her from his hold, her body shaking in his grasp. She would not be able to stand even as he himself swayed on his feet. His seed dripped down her thighs, his member quivering within its sheath, softly writhing around its girth. Dare they even move? The sheen of their exertion and his musk cloyed on her skin and on her tongue - it was enough to ease even the greatest of burdens. Strength still lingered in them as Cullen lifted her gently away from the old arbour. Careful steps spun them around. Onto his knees, he sunk before their bedrolls laid together as one, kneeling as one at vespers, she his Chantry in that untamed wild. He laid her down as if she was some fragile, precious thing and brushed a sweat-slick lock of satin gold from her eyes before slipping from her warmth. Then he lay, splayed out and his arms stretch wide, inviting her into the comfort of his side.

Despite the rawness and ache seeping through, Estelle nestled herself into that place of strength and safety, the place she had once thought was beyond her, a place she had not want to risk losing, rather than never know it at all. Yet there, their cause left frozen in their wake for a single moment, he was what she could never regret. For that pleasure, that kindness beneath the stars, she pressed her kiss on his heart and saw the smile which she herself could only conjure on those lips.

“Maker, I am a lucky man.”

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> This was made for chenria, but also to combat some hate made for the pairing. I love anyone with Cullen, regardless of specific class. I have more of a [rant](http://illusionaryennui.tumblr.com/post/108038903438), but I digress. Why clutter of this place with unnecessary pain?
> 
> I hope it was enjoyed.


End file.
